Perhaps the Night
By craig2
When chronic taut muscles and bed sheets strain insomnolence, the body rickets, lumped and fetal, struggling in its own existence. Skin shrivels sugar brown, grows cancered with stubbled matted hairs drawn close as dying clover. The stomach lolls and thrusts then lacquers a bile-smeared sweat a satin gray. Love pours fast warm, and damp like thick parched rust in driving rain; a sediment seeking a sifted rest, a senility that captures death and hides the truth that gnaws it quick. Precious treasures sealed in gold would wither from fatigue - the blue mist night of space and the heart pound crash of time are mused by traumed traffic lights that dance and sing on bedroom walls on pillow cases choked, soaked blind. Home's mothered myth opts out on summer nights like these when life's last supper's efforts maim and crystal to a gagging salt- a breath released but never missed a soul sought tangent never gained. Written November 26th, 2001 © on Feb 22 2002 05:07 AM PST 0 • 10
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"When chronic taut muscles ..."